


Ten Years Gone

by baehj2915



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Drama, Endgame Cherik, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Loyalty, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, POV Multiple, Reunions, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baehj2915/pseuds/baehj2915
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about rebuilding The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters and how different people come home. </p><p>Chapter Two: Alex tries to create a routine out of chaos, while dealing with civilian life, sudden appearances, and these people he calls family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. then as it was, then again it will be

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so there are a lot of pairings to live up to there, and they don't all happen right now. This is going to be a long, long journey compared to what I normally write, so, please suffer with me. I'll add more pertinent tags and characters as this goes along, but I won't be springing anything drastic like character death or noncon on you. There'll be some discussion of drug use, at least, because Charles. 
> 
> And maybe a few more pairings. Because Charles. 
> 
> I'd like to thank [listerinezero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/pseuds/listerinezero) for being my super duper awesome beta and dealing with how slow a writer I am. Despite her admirable effort, I'm sure I managed to sneak in many, many spag errors. Sorry about that. 
> 
> This is a lot inspired by "Ten Years Gone" by Led Zeppelin and my [1970s DoFP fanmix](http://8tracks.com/jabletown/songs-of-love-and-hate). Obviously, this fic directly follows DoFP, but it can also be read as a sequel to[Today, everything you want](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1665350). That's not necessary though. 
> 
> I hope this doesn't suck because I'm gonna write a lot about it.
> 
> ~*~

For a moment, Hank lay still, just listening.

Some time during sleep he’d shifted away from human-looking. He could feel the fur along his arms rustle against the sheets every time he moved. His senses were clearer and sharper. Oddly, he felt no need to change back. He felt loose-limbed and unraveled. He wasn’t sure if he should have. Nothing was sure. There was no definitive proof they had actually changed the future from the chaos and devastation Logan had shown them. But Hank could only remember feeling this comfortable as a child—walking through the woods alone, cataloging milkweed and wooly sedge in his journal. 

Thinking about how long it had been since he simply felt rested, what would really happen with the fate of mutant and mankind, what would happen with Raven, what would happen with him, and Charles, and the mutants of the world now, had him on the verge of tensing up again. He took a deep breath, trying to push further into the mattress. The springs wheezed with movement. For the first time in a long time, Hank actually had a reason to be hopeful. And he could rest with a better conscience than he could even a few days ago.

He didn’t want to squander it.

The mansion was still, but not oppressively. It was nice, Sunday morning quiet. Late spring meant keeping the windows open last night, or maybe neither of them thought about it at all. That was entirely believable. He could hear the robins in the box elder tree twenty yards from Charles’ window. He could hear a slight breeze, and the fussy, eternal settling of the fixtures in the old mansion. Now it was so quiet, but not in the same way he was familiar. The mansion had been quiet for years, but paradoxically loud in its solitude. This was different.

Perhaps, he wondered, it was all in his head.

Hank would have questioned the reality of the last bizarre few days of chasing down Mystique, breaking into government buildings, releasing Magneto from prison—everything being upended in a few short days—if it weren’t for the sore bruising in his shoulder from being thrown into a town car by a giant robot. 

Well, maybe he’d feel more certain about recent history after a little chat with Charles.

Charles was sleeping peacefully next to him. It was unusual for him to be under so deeply. More unusual for Hank to wake up before him. Seeing him asleep was an odd combination of comforting and worrying. Even after seeing all of Charles’ anger and hatred of himself and his drinking and his sadness, seeing him asleep was uniquely vulnerable. The development of their relationship—a term Hank was reluctant to use even if it meant nothing—into what it was had been tangled up in guilt and loneliness. They weren’t romantic. Their relationship was the same as it always had been. Only now they sometimes had sexual intercourse. Sex. He wasn’t ashamed of it. They never spoke about it outside of Charles’ room. They rarely spoke about it at all. 

Hank was fine with that, really. 

But seeing him really resting, not passed out or under the influence, was curative for Hank as well. 

The light streaming in the windows seemed to indicate late morning. He wondered if the paper was delivered yet. 

He wondered how much of the truth of yesterday’s incident would be plastered over the front page. 

He and Charles had been a little preoccupied with escaping from the police outside the stadium to plan too much for what the human world would say about mutants, or to check last night’s news. The word was out now. Magneto’s orchestration with the news cameras made sure of that. Charles could hide them from the minds of policemen when they’d made their way out of D.C., but he couldn’t erase the minds of everyone who’d seen the news. Actually, Hank did wonder. His reach with Cerebro still seemed so vast, despite not using it for several years. Though being amazed by Charles’ power was nothing new. 

Regardless, there was video evidence now. Of Magneto exposing the Sentinel program, and threatening to kill the President. And Mystique saving them all. And there were likely children all over the country now waking up to know there were other people like them—some of them good, some of them bad, or somewhere in between. Those children would need each other, need other mutants. 

They’d need someone like Mystique, who stopped the man who was going to use human weapons against them, undeniably mutant. 

He wondered if this was finally what Charles needed to get better, or start over, or just end what he had been doing—wallowing in the past and rejecting his gifts. The things Logan had told them seemed to help. Talking to Raven, even more. Charles had been more hopeful in that last few days that their dismal future could be stopped than Hank had seen him since the school first opened. 

Hank looked at Charles, still slightly snoring, and reasoned it was probably too much speculation before breakfast. 

Hank stretched, sat up, and nearly walked out the door before Charles’ chair caught his eye again. He’d almost forgotten already. 

Charles had always been tetchy about talking about his paralysis. Resentful of needing help, or at least resentful of acknowledging it. Hank was unsure if staying around to help Charles into his chair, or into the shower, would be welcome at all. Maybe with everything that had happened in the last few days, he would just be grateful for the thought. 

Then there was the likely possibility that despite whatever Charles thought of it, he’d need Hank’s help. He’d been taking the serum for nearly two years now. All of his equipment for physical therapy and the railings for the bathroom had been taken down and put away. 

But the choice was made for him. 

Past the distance of the open window, all the way to the front gate, Hank heard the squeal of tires slowing to a stop. Then car doors opening and multiple sets of footsteps getting out—one at least was the distinct sound of high heels. They were too far away for Hank to hear their voices as anything but indistinct mumbling, no matter how hard he concentrated. 

Hank grabbed and shook Charles’ shoulder, trying not to poke him with his claws. Charles just groaned and tried to turn further into his pillow. 

“Wake up. People are here. Standing at the gate. _Not_ breaking in.” 

Hank felt as though he might have some idea what to do if people were breaking in. But after what happened the last time someone unexpectedly showed up at the mansion, he was a little afraid to see who might be out there. 

Charles nodded and rested a hand on Hank’s arm. “I’m sure they’ll go away eventually, Hank. Come back to bed.” 

“Charles. Do you remember yesterday? I think it might be people from the government.” 

Or worse, news media.

He finally opened his eyes and sighed. “Oh, right. Bugger.” He lazily brought his hand to his forehead, undoubtedly searching for the people out by the gate. “Not government, but they are in Intelligence. They—Dear Lord, it’s S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

“People from S.H.I.E.L.D. are here before the CIA? I have to say I find that surprising.” 

“No, _S.H.I.E.L.D._ is here.” Charles tried sitting up and winced, switching to pushing himself up with his arms, as Hank tried to resist helping him. After leaning fully against the headboard, Charles looked disconcertingly at Hank. “Howard Stark and Director Carter are here.”

Hank could feel his fur and enhanced musculature slip away in the shock. The likelihood of representatives from various intelligence agencies finding them was something he regarded as high from the moment he had a chance to think about it. But the actual head director and co-founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. had not entered his calculations. He walked quickly over to the other nightstand for his glasses, simply for something to do. 

“What? Why are they here? I mean, I can guess why people like that would be here today, but… why are they here?” 

Charles’ expression distanced again as he went back into their visitors’ minds. He scoffed, finding his answer. 

“A number of reasons. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. had found my dissertation. It was tucked away in some researcher’s desk for safekeeping. Ms. Carter is upset it wasn’t brought to her attention when Lehnsherr was put away. S.H.I.E.L.D. and the CIA do not keep open lines of communication.” 

“Okay,” Hank said uneasily. “So they’re here to ask you about Erik?” 

Charles sighed. “In part. They are also here to find out more about mutation in general. Raven. And me. I have a sickening feeling they are going to offer me work. If this impromptu interview yields positive result, that is.” 

“Do you want me to…?” 

He shook his head. “No. Let them in. We’ll get this over with. No hiding now.”

Hank nodded. Howard Stark and Peggy Carter wouldn’t be here if they were going to treat mutants with hostility for the time being. At least, Charles didn’t look like that was a possibility. From Hank’s perspective yesterday, Charles’ telepathic faculties seemed to be at least that well recovered from disuse. 

Hank looked pointedly at the wheelchair, hoping for Charles to pick up on his unspoken question. He was glad Charles was quick to use his powers already. He didn’t know if it would make Charles any happier, but he did use Cerebro. And he talked to Raven, convinced her that she could do the right thing. That had to mean progress. 

And Charles did respond. “I can manage the chair, I believe. But if you could fetch some clean clothes from the dresser to speed things up a little. I’ll have to forego that shower until later.” 

He returned to the bed with some dark slacks and a light blue shirt. It was fairly presentable, but it wasn’t as though they’d given any warning. 

“Don’t worry about it. The house is in a state as it is anyway. And I just want to get this over with. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Hank paused when Charles hand enclosed his wrist. Charles’ eyes were clear and focused. Something about it made him bolster, like everything was going to be alright.

“I mean it, Hank. Thank you. I haven’t said it enough.” 

He shook his head and tried to be nonchalant about it, but really Charles’ recognition meant everything to Hank. There was probably no use in trying to hide it. 

“You’re welcome. I—you’re welcome.” He stood up quickly, to give Charles some room and privacy. “I’ll go bring them in.” 

“And, Hank,” Charles said, stopping him again. 

“Yes.”

“Some clothes would probably be the right step forward.” 

Hank looked down sheepishly to see a lot of pale skin and only his boxer shorts. “Right.” 

At least it wasn’t the CIA. Most agents hadn’t really liked Hank when he had worked for the CIA. He doubted they’d like him more waiting for him to put on pants.

 

 

At the gate there were only a man and a woman, which was odd because Hank thought he’d heard more. They were both in their fifties, but well maintained and effortlessly well dressed. Not a surprise given that they were definitely Howard Stark and Peggy Carter. They were both wearing casual suits, but Mr. Stark was carrying an attaché case. Given that they were here to talk to Charles about mutation, and that yesterday one mutant had tried and nearly succeeded in killing the President, Hank wagered the other set of feet he’d heard before were agents or bodyguards of some kind. He couldn’t hear them anymore as he was, but they were probably patrolling the grounds, or looking for a way in around the gate to patrol the grounds. He straightened his back, tried to make himself tense. If things took a turn for the worse, he wanted to change quickly. 

When the two noticed him come to the gate, they looked at each other a little dubiously. 

“Are you the caretaker?” the man—renowned innovator and engineer Howard Stark, Hank had to keep from putting on refrain in his head—called out. 

“Pretty much,” Hank said, searching through his ring of keys for the chain’s master lock. 

“I don’t want to tell a man how to do his job, but…” 

He pointed to the high grass and the sign, where it fell. Well, where Hank had ripped it off and dropped it. Hank got angry, too, after Alex and Sean got drafted and the school closed. 

“We’ve been busy.” 

Ms. Carter watched him unravel the chain around the gate. “You know why we’re here then?” 

Hank couldn’t stop his eyebrow from reaching his hair. They didn’t know about Charles. At least they didn’t know he was a telepath. Or maybe they didn’t know just how involved they had been with Mystique and Erik and the Sentinels. 

“A mutant dropped a baseball stadium around the White House yesterday and threatened the President on national television. I did make an educated guess, yes.” 

“A mutant also saved the President. And a whole lot of other people, I’d wager,” Mr. Stark added. 

Hank ignored that. He was all for giving them a lead on Magneto, but Raven was an entirely different matter. 

She nodded and smirked the same way Charles used to—hiding it, but too excited to do it very well. “We’re seeking a little illumination from Dr. Xavier. I take it he’s in.” 

“He wants to speak with you, too.” Hank opened the door. 

They walked through the gate, but looked at each other uncertainly. Hank grinned behind them. He didn’t particularly feel the need to explain that before they met Charles. They were the ones who wanted to get involved with mutants. 

Having the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the foyer really brought home to Hank how much they’d let the mansion go. It looked more like the set of The Munsters, rather than a former school. Charles simply hadn’t cared for a while, a long while. He ventured to the library on occasion, but most of the time stayed in his study—usually eating there and sometimes even sleeping there. And Hank tended to only frequent his labs, the kitchen, his bedroom, and Charles’ bedroom. It had been hard to stay concerned about the dust and spreading clutter when his main task over the past few years was just trying to keep Charles afloat. And he’d been the only one doing that job. 

Being embarrassed reminded him how much the school used to mean to him. 

“Like what you’ve done with the place,” Mr. Stark said, looking a little uneasy, but still managing to sound rude and rich. At Hank’s frown, he added, “But you’ve been busy.”

“I’d offer you something to drink, but it’s not like we knew the owners of Spies Incorporated were coming over for breakfast.” 

Ms. Carter pinned him down with a look that was both authoritative and diplomatic. “That we cannot do this more formally is unfortunate, but with an event of the magnitude that happened yesterday, the haste is necessary. It is imperative we speak with Dr. Xavier as soon as possible.” 

Hank agreed, but before he could go anywhere he heard the elevator pulleys off the central hallway squeak to a stop, and Charles came off the platform to come to them. 

Charles shook hands with Ms. Carter first. “It’s an honor to meet you, Head Director Carter. And you, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Xavier.” 

“I have to agree,” Mr. Stark said. “When your dissertation was brought to my attention years ago, I dismissed it. I’m not dismissing it now. You’ve had the jump on this for years now. Interesting stuff.” 

Ms. Carter added, “Before yesterday I would have said interesting. Today, it’s more vital. And we’ve come to request as comprehensive a tutorial we can get at last minute.” 

“I’m not sure how much I can enlighten you. My dissertation posited the theory of how a branch of Homo sapiens with abilities previously uncommon to the race could be developing. I could only reiterate what I wrote there. I fail to see how a lecture on genetics would help you in your line of business.” 

“Well, obviously your theory was correct. I think you already know that, Professor, so there’s no need to be coy. And being a man of science, you must understand that one needs to be educated on a matter before understanding how to engage. This Erik Lehnsherr would’ve killed the President of the United States in the name of defending his people. If that doesn’t amount to a security threat, I don’t know what does. If we’re going to deal with people of extraordinary power on a more frequent basis, we need to know more about them.” 

Mr. Stark cleared his throat. “If we can’t appeal to your sense of morality, perhaps we can appeal to your pocketbook.” 

Hank gripped his fingernails into his palm, trying to remember that they didn’t know anything about Charles, or really what they were getting into. Hostility, or rather adrenalin, helped him transform but he needed to wait and see. Thankfully, Charles didn’t look as indignant as Hank felt. He was pushing up slightly against the arm of his chair, with an eyebrow raised in question, and suddenly it was like seeing him speak to students again. 

“Well as long as we’re not being coy anymore, the first thing I must tell you is that mutants are my people too. And my sense of morality prohibits me from providing certain information to you. Erik might—“ Charles cut himself off, and forcibly loosened his white-knuckle grip on the armrests of his chair. 

He continued, “That man, Erik Lehnsherr, may be a menace. He is most certainly dangerous. But he wasn’t entirely wrong. Simply from the knowledge of mutants and mutations, Bolivar Trask built weapons that would have murdered countless innocent mutants, and more humans besides. No people pose a threat simply though existing. Even if it isn’t your aim to catalog mutants and monitor them for the crimes they may or may not commit—or to use mutants as soldiers to achieve your goals—you must understand how I would be reluctant to provide you with information that might one day be used for those purposes. What Erik did was regrettable to say the least, but he did it out of reaction to a very real threat. That threat to the safety of my people is what I am most concerned with. Any discussion you want to include me in must be predicated on the understanding that what happened with Trask will never happen again.” 

Director Carter and Mr. Stark were sharing a look that Hank could barely register. He was a little distracted by a quaking frisson in his chest. Charles sounded like he had when he was talking to Mystique yesterday. 

He sounded determined. 

Hank had a nervous, sour taste in his throat. The unusual acknowledgement that Erik was right aside, this was good. This was undoubtedly good. The instances of Charles sounding determined, being positive, _trying_ to fix these problems were building. Things were changing. Hank had hoped for so long for change, that Charles would just try again. 

But things had looked up before only to fall apart again. They’d worked so long to build lesson plans and be approved for the proper accreditation, to create credible falsifications for the true nature of their students from prying eyes, only to have parents reject them for fear of acknowledging their children as different. They tried to remake families for themselves only to see their friends leave, get drafted, or die. 

Hank wanted to see this for the good sign it was, but he wanted even more to feel safe later on if it wasn’t. 

Director Carter looked—well, Hank would’ve said delighted, but he didn’t think the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. would be delighted over someone being uncooperative. 

“Of course there may be those who believe the same as Trask does, Professor Xavier, but I want no such thing. I don’t want money and resources to be frittered away on base prejudices. And I certainly don’t want innocent people to be persecuted anymore than you do. That is not the aim of S.H.I.E.L.D. Yesterday was proof enough to me that whatever threat these mutants, as you say, may present are individual, just as in the rest of the world. However, mutants will surely be exposed to open scrutiny now. In order to discern how to protect your people from those who are truly dangerous, a directive of how to proceed needs to be established. And for that, you’re our man.” 

Finally, Charles looked at Hank, with a little push at his mind. It wasn’t so much as a way to inquire after Hank, but to let him know Charles was going to do this. _If you don’t want to be involved, I’ll lift you out of their memories._

Hank shook his head and tried to propel his internal voice as best he could, like Charles had taught him years ago. _I’m with you._

Charles reversed with the handrim of his wheelchair and turned toward the drawing room off the right of the foyer. “Well then, we should talk.” 

The drawing room hadn’t been totally closed off. The air wasn’t too stale, but most of the furniture was dressed with dust covers. Thankfully there was a kind of card table with wooden chairs. He ran ahead to pull the covers off. There was still an empty vase, an ashtray, and a deck of cards lying unused on the table from when the room had been covered. He pulled one of the chairs away so Charles would have room. Mr. Stark and Director Carter looked askance at Hank for a moment when he didn’t leave the room. 

“Hank will stay, I believe,” Charles said, rolling up to the table. “He’s done far more practical study of the mutant gene than I have. Have a seat, Hank.” 

He tried to effectively hide being flustered at his insight being required. It had been a while. He’d wanted to stay of course, if only to be around in case things deteriorated, as they inevitably seemed to do. He hadn’t forgotten about those other footsteps he’d heard, and he doubted Charles couldn’t draw a bead on their minds. 

The discussion of the basics of what Charles and Hank believed, and knew, about the mutant gene was fairly thorough given its immediacy. Howard Stark was an engineer, but brilliant and clearly experienced with what sort of questions to ask. Ms. Carter, too, was very clever. She didn’t react negatively to any mutations they put forward as possibilities. But that was the fundamental understanding of mutation. Everything was easier to discuss and understand in theory than when confronted with real live mutants and the powers they might have. Proceeding from there, it was inevitable that Erik was brought up to complicate everything. 

Erik always did. 

“Let’s theorize a practical situation,” Mr. Stark said, situated enough to take a cigarette case out of his jacket and start smoking. “Subduing a threat with mutant abilities.” 

Charles’ brow tensed. “As I said, I won’t be party to helping anyone create a line of defense specifically for mutants. Should the need occur I don’t doubt that your operatives can devise the correct tactical response.” 

“To be frank,” Director Carter said, “we’re trying to get at what you know about this Lehnsherr fellow. When you spoke before you sounded as though you knew quite a lot about him.” 

“Not to mention that magnificent woman who shot him,” Mr. Stark added. 

Hank couldn’t keep from blurting, “What about her?” 

“She could have a place at S.H.I.E.L.D., for one.” 

Off Charles and Hank’s shared look of uneasiness, Director Carter shook her head. “Let’s table that for the moment. What do you know about Erik Lehnsherr, Professor?” 

Hank could see a tendon working in Charles’ clenched jaw before he sighed. “I think what I know about Erik Lehnsherr is far less important than what you know. And what you plan to do with that knowledge. I presume you’re going to look for him.” 

“He did make threats on the office of the Presidency. Considering the nature of our discussion, I can also reveal to you that he was previously imprisoned in a specialized, high security prison for a previous assassination, though S.H.I.E.L.D. has reason to suspect someone else was culpable. Regardless, the CIA was not forthcoming with a rationale for years, and no reason as to how or why the prison was unorthodox until he escaped from it. Erik Lehnsherr is a dangerous man on the loose. It would be beneficial to the world at large if we were to know if he were going to attempt another terrorist act.” 

From the moment Ms. Carter had said “previously imprisoned,” Charles slid into Hank’s head with a cautionary _Don’t look over to me—Director Carter is very keen to that sort of thing_. 

“I’ve no barometer to predict Erik’s actions,” Charles said, looking away from the table for a moment. “I thought I had understood him, but… Anyway, that’s not important. If you’ve got information on him from the CIA then you should be aware of exactly why he’s so willing to lash out against anyone that would threaten him or other mutants. I would be hard pressed to imagine that Dr. Schmidt didn’t keep some kind of record pertaining to Erik.” 

Hank tried to keep a poker face, but he was curious about what the Professor was doing. Obviously Charles knew more about Erik than anyone in the world—keeping that from S.H.I.E.L.D. was probably just a sound operating procedure. But Charles sounded more sympathetic toward Erik than he had in years. Surely that wasn’t wise. 

While Mr. Stark looked away in a sneer, presumably at the mention of Nazi scientists, Ms. Carter’s focus narrowed soberly on Charles. 

“A record was found of a child named Erik Lehnsherr family being admitted into Auschwitz, yes. Some years ago S.H.I.E.L.D. did get a hold of some writings of Dr. Schmidt, about a child with supernatural skills, without naming him. Poor recordkeeping for a Nazi. That was Lehnsherr?”

Charles nodded, almost distractedly. 

Back when they’d all been joined together, Hank and the others had only known the vaguest details of Erik’s life. Erik had been a child in a Jewish ghetto, and then a Nazi concentration camp. His family had been killed. Somewhere in the imprecise period of time after that and before they met, he’d dedicated his life to finding surviving Nazis and killing them. 

Knowledge of Erik specifically being a Nazi killer seemed to mitigate the killing aspect at the time. Hank had been a little leery of Erik, but never thought Erik’s definition of what a threat was could be expanded so broadly. 

And Hank knew that if that had surprised him, it must have been some measure of what crushed Charles. 

There had been a great deal of time afterwards, after the incident in Cuba when Erik and Raven left, to wonder what had happened to Erik, and what Charles knew about it. But Charles was obviously uncomfortable talking about Erik. Then after the assassination he was resolutely opposed to it, convinced Erik was beyond help or hope. 

But if Charles knew Erik as well as he seemed to do, and the helmet was no longer an impediment, Hank was beginning to wonder exactly why Charles was so reluctant now to let the authorities deal with Erik. 

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s twice now attempted to commit major acts of terrorism.” 

For a moment Hank thought Charles wouldn’t respond, but said, with his brow knitted together, “No, it doesn’t. But you want to know more about him. I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that.” 

“Can’t, or won’t?” Mr. Stark said.

“Fair enough question, I suppose. I won’t.” 

Director Carter made an elegant expression of surprise. “Withholding vital information could be construed as harboring a fugitive, Professor.” 

Hank tensed up, but Charles laughed. It wasn’t quite like his angry, mocking laugh, but it wasn’t genuine either. 

“Until such a time as I am being legally compelled to provide testimony against Erik Lehnsherr, then. For now, I won’t. It hadn’t escaped my notice that this meeting is informal.” 

Director Carter started to speak, but she was drowned out by a loud, familiar sound that Hank couldn’t quite remember, and a flash of light coming from behind him in the front lawn. 

Charles’ alarm was evidently interrupted as his face slid into a less severe surprise. “Alex?” 

“Alex?” Hank repeated, trying not to be mired in confusion. 

Alex’ last letter was six weeks ago, but felt much longer. It seemed impossible that he would just appear and be back in the States. But the mention of his name made the loud unnamed sound clicked in Hank’s mind. It was the sound of Alex’ plasma blasts. 

Ms. Carter was on her feet, before Hank could push away from the table, reaching in her jacket for her handgun. 

“What’s going on?” Mr. Stark said, putting his attaché case on the floor. 

“It seems your men outside have encountered a surprise visitor of mine.” 

“And your friend carries flash bombs with him?” Ms. Carter snapped, at the same time Mr. Stark said, “How did you know about our agents?” 

Charles ignored them and said, “Hank, please go out and tell Alex not to—“ 

Which is naturally when a body came flying through the front bay window of the drawing room. It wasn’t Alex, but the heightened tension of imminent violence made Hank’s hackles rise. That pull that started in the middle of his spine started to twist inside him. He was still at the stage where he could fight off changing into his more beastly version, but he didn’t. He thought of the fight, and being needed, and let his shoulders shift and crack, seeing the edges of his periphery turn blue. 

He shook off the niggling pain running down his bones from the transformation, vibrating with the urge to move in his arms and legs, and took a running leap through the open window. 

Staggering over from the circle drive to the yard was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent brawling with Alex. They were almost wrestling, perhaps too close for Alex to use his power without doing permanent damage, or setting one or both of them on fire. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was undoubtedly more experienced, and got in a good punch to Alex’ middle, doubling him over. 

Hank closed the distance in three bounds, tackling the agent to the ground. It was easier to do with the man actually having caught a glimpse of him, all blue and hairy, barreling towards him and froze. Some part of his brain registered that chokehold Logan had put him in, so he wrapped his right arm around the man’s neck and took measure of his heart rate in his carotid artery as it slowed. 

He let go of the agent and stood up to see Alex looking at him, gobsmacked. Before Hank could say anything Alex rushed forward and hugged him. 

While Hank and Alex had grown to be better friends than they’d started out, they had never hugged. They were more family than friends, and as such felt more responsible for each other than affectionate. They hadn’t even hugged when Alex was shipped off. They’d shook hands and Alex clapped him on the shoulder, pretending that it was a normal thing for Alex to get flown across the world with the possibility of never coming back alive, pretending that all the arguments everyone had about the war had never even taken place. 

But all of that seemed to mean nothing compared to seeing Alex at home and alive. 

Alex pulled away from their hug, patting Hank on the shoulder again, and visibly trying to reel in the emotion on his face, which was sadness, happiness, and more than Hank could see. 

“It’s good to see you, Bozo,” he said, sounding like the same taunting Alex but with a frog in his throat.

Hank couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed. “It’s good to see you too, Alex.” 

“I saw you on the news all furred out,” he blurted, seemingly out of nowhere until he added, “I was worried. I mean, Erik and Raven? What the fuck was that? Giant flipping robots?” He gestured to the unconscious S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and the hole he’d put in the front window. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Well, these are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. The rest is kind of a long story. But we should—we should probably explain that you didn’t mean to hurt these guys. Not seriously.” 

“Why? What’s going on, man?” 

“Howard Stark and Peggy Carter are inside talking to the Professor about Erik. These were their men.” 

Alex’ eyebrows nearly met his hairline. “Holy shit.” 

“I know,” Hank muttered in commiseration. He eyed a khaki duffel bag a few feet behind Alex and slung it around his shoulder. On the other side of his periphery, he could see Director Carter standing at the window frame watching them. “Come on.” 

“It’s good to know things are just as crazy here as they’ve always been.” 

Hank laughed a little nervously, not nearly ready to really broach the depth of that comment just now. After all, Alex had only missed the time-traveling bone-clawed proxy of an older Professor and Magneto by a day or so.

In the drawing room, Director Carter was waiting for them with a stern look that spoke volumes about her capacity as the head director of S.H.I.E.L.D. The man Alex had put through the window was sitting on one of the covered sofas holding a handkerchief to his forehead, looking bruised and dazed. Mr. Stark was sitting next to him, looking more chipper than he probably should have. And there was no sign of Charles. 

“How fairs young Applebee?” Mr. Stark said, motioning out past the window, presumably to the unconscious man on the lawn. He rose to his feet and closed the distance to Hank, getting a better eyeful of Hank. 

Alex answered, “He’s alive. Why were those jackasses trying to keep me from getting inside?” 

“Poor timing. Sorry about that,” he said, not looking entirely sorry. “We’re having a somewhat classified discussion right now.”

Alex snorted. “Gee, I wonder what you could be talking about.”

“So you are. You’re a mutant as well. Professor Xavier does have some interesting acquaintances.” 

Hank really couldn’t ignore how Ms. Carter was staring at him anymore. Mr. Stark was looking at him too, but not as concentrated. He was clearly curious, clinical. The Director appeared to be concerned, but also fascinated. Neither of them looked afraid.

“You were the one in the fountain in Paris,” she said, clearly connecting the dots. 

“Told ya you were on the news.” Alex slapped his arm. 

Hank didn’t need a reminder. It was still very vivid in his mind. People gaping in silence because they couldn’t comprehend. It had been like a re-enactment of a nightmare he’d had since childhood. A fear of being seen the way he truly was that only got worse after his failed attempt to make his feet look normal. Except he’d always thought being seen would mean he’d have to disappear entirely. As horrible as it had been, being suspended in front of a crowd of people staring at him, it had been nowhere near the hideous, violent reaction of his imagination. 

Being there again, strangers seeing his blue fur and claws and fangs, with no calamity coming down on him, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. 

“You were working with… that woman. To stop Lehnsherr.” 

Hank shrugged, trying to keep the growl down in his chest. “Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that. Where did the Professor go?” 

“But you know her,” she said, ignoring his question. 

“You aren’t,” Mr. Stark started, seemingly wondering aloud, “related? Are you?” 

Alex scoffed for him. “You see two blue people and you automatically assume they’re related?” 

“Forgive me, but before last week I’d never seen any blue people let alone knew they existed.”

“Howard,” Director Carter scolded, before directing her attention back to Hank and Alex. She motioned to Alex. “And you? You have enhanced strength? You threw our man clear through the window.”

“No. I’ve got something else. You don’t need to ask because I’m not going to tell you.” Alex’ shoulders tensed up, hands ready at his side, as though he were preparing to draw a weapon. “Where’s the Professor?” 

Thankfully the tension was slightly mediated by Charles making a reappearance with a first aid kit on his lap. He stopped wheeling forward however when he saw Alex. They were holding a look, each of them looking progressively more emotional. If they were having a mental conversation, Hank couldn’t tell. Then Alex walked over to the Professor, kneeled down, and hugged him as suddenly as he’d done with Hank. 

“It’s good to have you back, Alex,” Charles said aloud when Alex withdrew. “Unfortunately you’ve come at an awkward time.” 

Alex cleared his throat with a laugh and looked around the room uncomfortably. “Yeah, sorry about that. I just… I came to see if I could stay and these two—“

“Of course! Yes, of course you can stay. Stay as long as you’d like.” Charles looked like he was going to try getting out of his chair to take Alex to his room as he hastily handed the first aid box to Howard Stark. It seemed he noticed the broken windowpane and the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in his drawing room again as an afterthought. “Hank, would you take Alex to one of the rooms, help him air it out? All the other bedrooms are closed, I’m afraid, so it will be a little musty for a few days.” 

“It’s fine, Professor. It can wait until—“ Alex cut himself off and motioned to their S.H.I.E.L.D. visitors. 

Charles shook his head. “I can carry on alone. It would likely be best at this point.”

Charles’ psychic voice pierced through Hank’s mind abruptly, and guessing from the way Alex startled next to him Charles probably spoke to him as well. _If you need me to erase you from their minds, I will._

_We’re going to be seeing these people again, aren’t we? I mean, we can’t just disappear, given what’s happened. And I don’t think I want to. Disappear. We can handle it. Can’t we?_

Charles’ agitated mental presence quieted slightly. _Yes, Hank. I believe we can._

 

 

“It’s quiet here now,” Alex said, collapsing against the end of his newly refitted bed.

Getting the vents and windows opened, finding some linens, and taking out the dust covers in Alex’ old room didn’t take very long. 

It felt familiar, having Alex back. As though he’d never left. But it was also completely new. The school fell apart and Hank had spent the last two years stationary. He’d kept the building barely running, kept Charles barely running. 

Alex had gone to war. He hadn’t said anything about it yet. Hank hadn’t expected him to, but he could already see certain changes in Alex. The way he carried himself was stiffer, more cautious. He wasn’t wearing fatigues, but he strangely looked like he was in a nondescript green shirt and straight-legged trousers and his military haircut. He looked tired, in that way Charles looked tired, beneath the skin. 

Of course, minus Charles’ debauchery. Alex seemed more disciplined, which was to be expected given any significant time in the armed forces, Hank supposed. Though Hank was unexpectedly glad to see that Alex was too much of a smart ass for the Army to beat it out of him. 

“Without the…” Alex motioned outside the room, to the empty school, not saying the word ‘students’ aloud. “Kinda freaky.”

“Just me and Charles. Sometimes he listens to music pretty loud.” 

Hank did not add that it had usually been to cover over arguments he held aloud with no one. He never figured out if that was from the drugs, the drinking, taking too much of the serum, telepathy, or the absence of telepathy. Or all of it combined. 

Alex nodded absently. “I’ll have to get a radio the next time I go to town. I can’t stand the quiet anymore. The worst time over there was when it was quiet.” 

It looked like he was drifting into some kind of memory Hank couldn’t imagine was good. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Hank tried not to let out a sigh of relief when Alex shook his head and felt bad for it. He was not equipped to handle talking about the sort of things that happened when people fought in a war, even for someone as good as family. Hank’s feet, and an overwrought draft doctor who didn’t want to fully uncover how his feet worked, got him declared 1-Y because of his “disability,” which meant Hank was never going to war unless the Communists attacked New York City. The experience gap alone made him feel like he wouldn’t be of any help. 

Reaching out in understanding and offering advice was more Charles’ bag. Well, it used to be. 

Thankfully, suddenly, Alex pulled himself out of his distant mood. “How’s the Professor?” 

There was something in Alex’ tone that indicated he already had a pretty good idea how poorly Charles had been fairing. There was the obvious—the mansion had obviously been falling into disrepair since shortly after he left, Charles was unshaven and unkempt, Charles’ letters to Alex dropping off after some time. Moreover, Alex was intuitive, and had always liked Charles. 

Alex added, looking down at the floor again in discomfort. “Has it really been that bad? It looks pretty bad.”

Hank shrugged but felt it stick awkwardly in his shoulders. There really wasn’t any reason to hide the truth from Alex, but he still wanted to for Charles’ sake. Maybe for his own—to hide how poorly he’d done holding on to everything while Charles was on a mental sabbatical from being the one they relied on to be in charge. He’d done so to a certain extent in his correspondence to Alex while he was serving. Charles had started writing letters but found himself incapable of remembering to do it the more shots he took and the more he drank. Hank hadn’t wanted to worry Alex while he had enough to worry about anyway. 

“It’s been,” Hank let his claws dig into his palms a little, trying to find the right word. “It’s been difficult. Charles hasn’t been very well, but I think he’s doing better now. Or at least the last few days. I mean it’s been a pretty hectic few days, so I don’t… I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Hank. We’ll figure it out.” 

“You don’t need to—“ Hank stopped abruptly, thinking better of speaking altogether.

“What?” 

“You don’t need to stay if you don’t want. You shouldn’t feel obligated to help, is what I mean. You can have your own life.” 

Alex snorted, not exactly hiding his disagreement, proving that not even war could keep Alex from thinking everything Hank said was ridiculous. “What? Do you think I’ve got a house and a job tucked away somewhere?”

“Of course not, I just—“

“Do you think I don’t want to be here?” 

“No, that’s not—“

“Don’t you want to have your own life? You know, beyond mutants, the school?” 

“This is my life,” Hank snapped.

Alex shrugged, like it was no big deal. “There you go. This is my life, too. This is my home.” 

Hank looked at him from the desk he’d been leaning against. Alex’ duffel bag was slung against the footboard of his bed. And the three boxes of his possessions that had been stored in the closet were now sitting between them. That was everything Alex owned. Home had never been a topic in their conversations. Maybe Hank just should have known given Alex’ history of bouncing from orphanage to foster families to jail. 

“Yeah. Of course it is.” After failing to find interest in the grain of the wood floor, or the newly opened window, he added, “I’m really glad to have you back home, Alex.”

Alex looked away, grinning. “It’s good to be back, Bozo.” 

They talked for a while after. Alex asked him about what good movies had come out, to which Hank couldn’t say much. He didn’t go outside for much of anything, let alone the movies. Alex was a little upset to learn _Petticoat Junction_ wasn’t on TV anymore. Hank had never understood why Alex liked _Petticoat Junction_ of all things. It wouldn’t have mattered any other time, but there was something refreshing about the mundanity of it. Alex was just eager for any knowledge of what was happening with day-to-day life in America, and maybe even with Hank specifically. 

The realization that it was fun—and that fun was a thing he could have again—eked out of Hank through their time together. 

Charles made a telepathic inquiry into Hank’s mind when Mr. Stark and Director Carter, and their slightly wounded agents, left the grounds. Hank and Alex met him in the drawing room again, where he was engrossed in what appeared to be some kind of hefty looking official report, seemingly oblivious to the still-standing debris of the broken window. There was an unmarked manila folder on the card table. Charles swept them up and tucked them next to his hip in the chair when he noticed Hank and Alex. 

“So S.H.I.E.L.D. was here because of Erik, right? Not us,” Alex said. 

“Yes. They wanted to know what I knew about Erik and mutation in general. And Raven.” 

“Did you tell them where she is? Do you even know where she is?” 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “No to both as it is. I have an idea of what she’s doing, but who knows after that. Hank and I haven’t had much time for anything since we fled D.C. yesterday, let alone getting to Cerebro.” 

Alex smiled. “Sorry about the window. I’d offer to pay for it, bur I’ve only got about two hundred dollars to my name. Somehow I think that wouldn’t cover it.” 

“Actually, it’s on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s dime. They’re paying for the inconvenience.” 

That made Hank a little suspicious. “Did they offer you a job then? They’re looking into mutants?” 

Charles scratched at his beard in irritation. “Yes, they did. Director Carter promised she has no intentions on targeting mutants other than those who commit the crimes they specialize in.” 

“Like Erik,” Alex interjected. 

Charles frowned, but ignored it. “As far as I can glean from her mind she’s straight-forward and will follow her word. I didn’t detect any malice towards mutants as a group. But that’s at this time. Further developments may change that. Which is, of course, to say nothing of what other people—in government, in intelligence, in the world at large—will do now that word about mutants is sure to be spreading wildly.” Almost as though he were talking to himself he quietly added, “It’s something I’ll most certainly have to keep my eye on.” 

“So does anyone else know you two were in D.C. when Erik crashed the big robot party? Should we be expecting the CIA for lunch?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t even know we were there,” Hank said, still somewhat amazed by that. “The camera feed must have been interrupted at least before those Sentinels were chasing after me. They came because of Charles’ thesis on genetic mutation.” 

“And it’s not like records of the school disappeared. So it’s only a matter of time before other people come with the same questions.” 

Charles nodded. He looked nervous, like he was preparing for something. “Is that something you’re going to be okay with? Both of you? It’s important. For you both to feel safe. And for me to know when I’m overstepping my bounds. I need for this—I want to be better.” 

A hitch in Hank’s chest lifted him up for a moment. All he could do was nod and hope Charles was feeling out for Hank’s approbation. Charles answered that not so much with telepathic language, but with a warm, buoyed sensation that felt a lot like fresh, woodsy air. Hank instinctively wanted to call it gratitude. 

“Yeah, Professor,” Alex said. “I’m with you. We’ve got to stick together.” 

“Thank you, boys. Thank you so much.” There was a long moment where it seemed like Charles was going to say more, but there was a slight shake to his head. His apprehensive mien faded into something a little more cheerful, but distant. “Well, I’ve got to make a call about getting this window fixed.” 

“I can start cleaning,” Alex offered. “I feel like I should.” 

“That isn’t necessary, really. You’ve had such a long trip. You should have your well earned rest and relaxation.” 

“I want to help somehow.” 

Hank interrupted saying, “I was thinking of starting with fixing up some of the property today. Fixing the front gate, cleaning up the fountain, weeding. It’s going to take a long time anyway, but it would go easier with some help.” 

Alex grinned. “Sure thing, Beast.”

Working in the yard felt good, satisfying. Of course the grounds were huge and they barely made a dent by the time Hank noticed it was well past lunch and moving on to dinnertime. He was hungry and he felt like an ass. When Charles had escalated taking the serum he’d become very unreliable when it came to remembering to feed himself. Hank doubted he was instantly recovered from that mindset, even if he hadn’t taken the serum in two days. Not to mention Alex, who had just recently made the trek from Saigon to New York and was undoubtedly tired and hungry. 

Still, getting lost in the task of fixing up his home made him feel awake and more energized. He felt confident. It was a strange and marvelous development. 

When they were going back inside, Alex told him, like he was observing a secret, “You’re still wearing your blue.” For a moment Hank thought that meant he should change back, but Alex smiled. 

“I’m proud of you, man.” 

Hank thought to himself that he was a little proud too. 

After getting a meal together, while Alex sat on one of the counters and regaled Hank with stories of KP duty and mealy Army apples, he brought Charles into the small kitchen from reading the documents Director Carter left behind. It was peculiar, the three of them eating all together. Hank had spent the last two years just trying to keep Charles alive. Dinner at the kitchen table was something that fell by the wayside a while back. 

The last time he’d sat down for dinner with Alex, Sean had been there too. Other students and teachers had been there. Then Alex was drafted. Then Mr. Aguirre, who’d been teaching English. And then Sean. A few of their students, who were older and more like residents just trying to get a handle on their mutations. Some students had already been pulled earlier at the height of rioting in ‘69—the racial tensions and explosions of violence giving everyone doubt they should have their children at a school for a new species of human. The few remaining left or had to leave when the school couldn’t cover its curriculum anymore. 

That sat heavily on Hank’s mind when they sat down to eat. If Charles could read it, Hank couldn’t tell. He didn’t say anything about it. Charles didn’t say much of anything, letting Alex talk about the unofficially designated squad of mutant soldiers he’d gotten to know in the Army, until they were almost done. 

“Would the both of you be interested in teaching again?” He said, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips. “I think it’s about time we re-open the school.” 

Hank let his fork drop and clatter on the table. In his haste to pretend that he was fine and unaffected, he forgot his heightened strength and flattened the prongs back when he grabbed it. 

“I can get behind that, Professor,” Alex said, still hovering over his plate, but bright-eyed beaming. 

“Hank?” Charles said, oddly closed off, despite how much of their lives had been about the school. 

Or probably because of that. 

Hank had been waiting for this moment for a long time. It’d only been two years since the school closed, but it had felt so much longer. Charles wasn’t the only one who had been invested in the school. Hank imagined a place where people who were as odd as being blue and hairy and gigantic could feel safe. Part of him even ventured out to the thoughts Mystique had provoked—a place where people like them could even feel wanted. Even if it couldn’t be that, it was going to be a place where children wouldn’t feel alone because of their mutations.

When they couldn’t keep enough students to make a school, it wasn’t only years of work that fell apart, it was years of hope. For both Charles and Hank, and more uncertainty for the teachers who’d had to leave. At least some of Hank’s dreams slipped away the way Charles’ did. Through some combination of being used to disappointment and being need to help Charles as much as Charles needed help, he’d made it through more intact. 

Hank had been waiting for this moment. Waiting patiently and impatiently. Waiting for Charles to feel well enough to suggest it. Waiting to work toward a goal beyond each day again. 

In spite of the sudden dryness in his throat, he managed to actually speak. 

“Yes. Yes, of course, Charles.” 

The rest of the evening was an indistinguishable blur in the light of Charles being ready to re-open the school. He heard mention of Charles’ planning to make some phone calls the next day, Alex volunteering to clear some storage places. But he was in a haze of half-remembering lesson plans and how to contact former students and how to build a newer security system. Hank wasn’t under the delusion that this meant Charles was fixed now, no longer depressed and over his drinking, but it was decidedly hard not to think of this as a miracle. He fumbled through putting away their yard tools after dinner with Alex, thinking about having a future to look forward to. 

He did, however, remember the wireless radio in the garden shed. Right before they were heading in for the night, Hank saw it, brushed the dust off it, and ran up to the house, handing it off to Alex. 

Alex looked it for a moment like he wasn’t sure what it was. 

“I’m sure, if you wanted, you could borrow the portable record player. I think Charles has it in his study. I mean I’m sure he’d just give it to you if you asked—“

“Hey, hey,” Alex said, both kind of laughing and scolding him. “It’s alright, Bozo. This is great. Thanks for remembering.”

“No problem. I just—Welcome home.” 

Alex smirked. “Thanks, Hank.” 

After Alex headed off to his room for sleep, and Hank showered, he felt a little restless. Cleaning up the yard did nothing to help the soreness in his shoulders. His bed was still made and had been for closing in on a week between leaving the mansion and sleeping in Charles’ bed. His room felt too spacious in its quietness. 

Without much determination, he started walking and found himself in front of Charles’ door. It was only slightly ajar. Hank guessed he debated knocking long enough that the mental equivalent must have happened. 

“Come in, Hank,” Charles called.

Charles was still in his manual chair, but he’d showered recently too. His hair was still a little damp. He was wearing his robe and actual sleepwear, instead of just underwear. Hank’s stomach dropped a little however when he noticed a tumbler of resting on the dresser to the right of where Charles was sitting. Next to it was the binder that Director Carter had left him. 

Charles looked up from the paper he was reading and shoved it back inside the binder. 

“Did Alex have any trouble settling in?” 

It was an overture at small talk, which Hank did appreciate. Charles talked to Alex for a while after dinner. Not to mention that if he really wanted to know and stretch his psychic muscles he could just find out on his own. 

“Yeah, I think. I have him the radio from the garden shed. He said he wanted something so it wasn’t so quiet.” 

“Good. It shouldn’t be a problem to get him something of his own soon enough. Are you alright?” 

“Yeah. Yes. I’m great.” 

Charles didn’t frown exactly, but his eyes settled on Hank shrewdly. “You’re normally not transformed for this long.”

Hank looked down at the long blue appendages of his feet. “Do you want me to change?”

“Of course not. Not if you’re comfortable. You just seem troubled.”

“No, well… I mean you want to open the school again. It’s what… There’s nothing better that we could do. I guess I’m concerned about things. Like what S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to do with mutants, what the CIA is going to do, what people in general are going to do in response to us. Where Raven is. But that’s… I guess we’ll deal all with that as it happens. Don’t mistake me, I’m happy. I’m so pleased that we’re starting the school again, but I’m not going to stop being worried about you, Charles.” 

A long moment passed, and the longer it was the more Hank thought Charles was going to cry. He didn’t though. He shook his head and said, “I’m certain I haven’t done anything good enough to deserve your loyalty, Hank. I don’t think I can ever repay you for everything you’ve done for me, but I’m so grateful for you. I know the past few years haven’t been easy for you either. I’m sorry for that, truly. I want to try again, to be better. And I’m glad you’re here for that.”

Then he smiled, genuinely. Those kinds of smiles had been so rare for so long, it brought Hank back to the first days they’d met. It was very easy to remember why he was willing to trust in Charles in the first place. Underneath everything else, at the core of Charles, was compassion. 

It reminded him that he was making the right decisions, which, he supposed, was what he was waiting for. 

Hank’s toes uncurled from the rug where he’d unconsciously dug in. “I want to be better too.” 

Charles was still smiling, but swallowed nervously and made a passing glance at his glass of scotch as he moved his wheelchair away from the dresser. “We’ll have to help each other with that then. I’m afraid you have the raw end of that deal once again, but… I don’t know if…” 

He left off for a moment, looking down in concern. 

“We’ll try,” Hank offered. Charles had done so much he’d become unused to in the past few days. Hank was more than happy to reach out for him, to make it easier.

Charles looked at him appreciatively and nodded. “We’ll try.” Not quite casually, he added, “Do you want to stay?” 

For a moment Hank was confused. That is what they had been talking about all day. But he looked down and remembered he was wearing only sweatpants. Showing up in Charles’ bedroom for no reason in bedclothes usually led to a reason. He felt a split second of doubt, knowing Alex was sleeping somewhere down the hallway, but, logically, that didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the fact Charles and Hank had been sleeping together for a while, nor did it change the fact that Hank enjoyed it. 

And he was beginning to think he was long overdue for embracing the things he enjoyed while he could. The last few days had proven there’s no clear way to make a better future. He and Charles both had lived through enough of the past dragging them down. The only option left was to serve the present as best as he was able. 

Hank was willing to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~
> 
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Next chapter will be Alex POV.


	2. changes fill my time, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex copes with coming home, civilian life, and changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh, this took longer to update than I anticipated. Some stuff came up, this was a pretty difficult emotional line to walk for me, and also I'm a terrible procrastinator. The next chapter should hopefully go a little faster. 
> 
> But to everyone who read chapter one and has been waiting, THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU! And if you're a new reader, pay no attention to that stuff I said, please invest your time and love in this story. 
> 
> No beta reader for this chapter, because of aforementioned terrible procrastination. Sorry for all the word swaps and missed words that are no doubt within. I'll plan the next chapters better, I promise. 
> 
> ~*~

There were a few things Alex never thought he’d do again when he got out of the Army. While stripping and cleaning an M16, and pointing it at someone, was something he was over the moon with never having to do again, he was breaking his own rule of sleeping in every morning for the rest of forever. Every morning he’d spent back at the mansion so far he’d woken up with the sun. 

It was mildly disappointing, but at least it wasn’t to patrol around in morning darkness to risk getting jungle rot or getting capped. 

He’d been using his mornings to fix up the grounds and some of the mansion exterior. He wasn’t an expert or anything, but grouting some of the brickwork and weeding the yard didn’t actually need any expertise. Hank worked on some of it with him, but he was also researching the new county guidelines for accreditation. Not that he expected Charles to wheel out in the garden and start mulching the dead spots with him, but Charles was also busy trying to get parents to talk over the phone about mutants and the importance of mutant education when he wasn’t answering the relentless phone calls from people in the government and reporters asking him just what mutation meant. 

It turned out if one mutant dropped a baseball stadium around the White House and sabotaged a big televised unveiling of mutant-killing robots, while another shot him in the neck; it caused a pretty big commotion. And the only expert on mutation in the world, or at least the only guy ever to write a dissertation about it at Oxford, was Charles Xavier. 

Alex was fine with stepping up with the house care while they were getting the school going again. It helped him to not think about things. 

Every morning at the mansion he woke up, adjusted to four solid walls and a ceiling instead of a tent, or barracks, or just the open sky, and turned off the radio. He ran a few laps around the grounds. He still had to fight off the urge to rush to shower. The back of his brain was still thinking twenty other guys would be in line and all the hot water would be gone in a minute. But after a few moments he could remember he was in a fancy mansion with a private hot water heater, where he could shower every single day if he wanted. 

That alone could make life worth living. 

Then he headed in the kitchen, started the coffee, drank a glass of real, actual, cold milk from the refrigerator just because he could, and ate breakfast. He was still in an egg-eating mood because, well, they were real, actual eggs. He didn’t even need to cover them in ketchup or hot sauce to choke them down. They tasted like eggs. Eggs in the Army, to say the very least, had not tasted much like eggs. And the less said about the rationed reconstituted milk the better. The closest he’d come to real milk in Vietnam was trading some Hershey bars with a farmer for a jar of warm goat milk. Back in Westchester, he opened the pantry door some mornings and just stared. The novelty of everything tasting good and being comfortable and available all the time still hadn’t worn off yet. 

After that it would be about time for the cleaning and renovation crews Charles had hired to start for the day. He’d work outside for a while. At lunch, he’d get to talk to Hank for a while. Mostly he’d let Hank talk about his ideas for the school—installing a security system for the perimeter of the property, creating a fireproof, shatterproof, soundproof, indestructible room for children with dangerous abilities to practice in. Then he’d work some more on the landscaping before dinner, watch some TV with Hank, run again, smoke outside by the kitchen door, and try to go to sleep. 

It was a quickly established routine and he was surprised by grateful he was for it. The few days he’d spent flying from Saigon to the States had been nerve-wracking, not knowing what was going down with Mystique and Hank being on the news, or what she’d stopped them from facing by not letting Stryker take them, knowing his letters were clearly not being forthcoming for some time. 

During the middle of the second week after he’d come home, Alex came back inside the mansion, still early in the morning, for a piss. On his way to the bathroom he noticed one of the younger cleaning ladies in Charles’ study. 

She looked a little pissed off to be honest, dusting the shelves and glaring at the mess. Alex would be pissed too. There were about a million records stacked around the left side of the room, crowding an old record player and a tiny bar cart. There were still pillows and blankets all over the sofas and chairs, and unorganized papers and books piled on the desk. A chessboard that looked like it was in the middle of the game was set on the coffee table between a few empty teacups. 

What Charles and Hank had been doing since the school was closed down was still vague. Nobody really talked about it. It was only clear that Charles hadn’t been doing well during that time. The clutter was only part of that. 

“Hey, I don’t think you’re supposed to clean this one.”

She startled for a moment, and then frowned. “Gloria said this one was next.” 

“Pretty sure Charles would want to go through this stuff himself.” 

“The man in the wheelchair? Gloria said to do it for him.” 

“Can you do a different room instead?” 

She stopped to show Alex exactly how much she cared about what he said. “Look, I was told to do this room. I’m not getting in trouble for not doing my job. I take orders from Gloria or the man in the wheelchair. I know this ain’t your house, pretty boy.” 

Alex groaned. “If I go ask my boss, will you not clean this room? I mean you can tell Gloria or whatever that he said not to.” 

She shrugged and turned back to dusting. “Do what you like.” 

Alex walked down to Charles’ room, figuring that even if Charles weren’t awake yet he’d probably want to be up soon. He knocked on the door, but didn’t wait before he opened it. Charles did wake at the sound. But so did Hank, who was lying in bed with the Professor curled right up next to his blue, hairy chest. 

Obviously the leftover Army approach to privacy was something he’d have to work on reining in, especially if this was what it got him in civilian life. There was a long, long moment of all three of them becoming aware of the awkwardness all at the same time. 

“Um…” Alex said, dumbly, because no other sounds would come out. 

He felt like he was nine years old again, finding out how babies were made and realizing that his parents had had sex. His brain was entirely filled with the new knowledge that Hank and the Professor were doing it.

Hank scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table while Charles struggled a bit to sit upright on the soft bed. Alex still couldn’t really focus. Hank was enormous and shirtless. Charles was normal and shirtless. Curiosities about Charles’ paralysis aside, that made him feel like shit for even wondering, Alex was pretty sure stuff like this shouldn’t be allowed to happen. 

Hank was a dweeb, but Alex had been pretty sure, well as of five minutes ago at least, that Hank had been a straight dweeb. 

And the Professor was—Well, Alex had always assumed the Professor was one of those guys who could swing both ways, but was never very talkative about either. Somehow he wound up queering up for Erik way back when. In ’63, Alex had been too broken up over Armando to care that Charles and Erik were having some ridiculous romance away from the kids. In fact, he’d been a little bitter about it before it turned tragic. After that, somebody’s ex-lover killing the President pretty much ends that conversation before it begins. 

“Yes, Alex, what do you—What is it?” 

“There’s, uh, the cleaning lady. She’s in your study. I figured… she shouldn’t be?” 

Charles cleared his throat. “Yes, alright. That’s good. I’ll go speak to her.”

“Yeah, when you—whenever. I’m gonna go. ” 

Hank was really concentrating on a spot on the floor and when Alex looked he saw it was a crumpled pair of red jockeys. They accidentally made eye contact after both seeing Hank’s underwear on the floor. He kind of wanted to disintegrate on the spot. And guessing from the purple-ish hue of his face, Hank probably wanted to as well. 

“Yes,” Charles said a little vehemently. “You should do that.” 

“No problemo,” Alex said, already down the hallway before the words made it out of his mouth. 

After a few hours of Alex finding all the reasons he could think of to avoid going inside, Hank brought lunch out to the yard, gangly and pale again instead of blue. Alex hadn’t seen much of that Hank since he’d come home. If Hank was trying to create some distance between them and what Alex had walked in on, it was appreciated. He knew Hank had a lot of hang-ups about the way his mutation looked, making the amount of time he’d been spending furry pretty impressive, but Alex really didn’t need a good visual reminder of walking in on Hank and the Professor. 

Hank put down a tray of sandwiches on the sawhorse Alex was using to nail some broken fence work back together, and handed him a bottle of Coke. He smiled awkwardly. 

“Thanks,” Alex said, taking a seat on the ledge of the empty fountain. “You eat yet?”

Hank shook his head. “I was gonna—“

“Hide inside?” 

Hank scoffed, shamefaced, but nodded. “Basically, yes.” 

“Sit and eat with me, man.” 

He did, but looked at Alex like he was the one acting out of character. “So,” Hank said cautiously, “you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” 

“Not mad, exactly. I don’t know. It’s weird. I just don’t want it to change anything.” 

“Well,” Alex said, pausing to eat a bite of a ham sandwich, “you can do whatever you want, but you know he’s never going to be over Erik, right?”

It was a pretty harsh reminder to drop like that, but it was true. Alex loved Charles, but even when he said he hated Erik, he was still in love with him. Even after nearly starting World War Three in Cuba, even after leaving Charles wounded on the beach, even after starting a mutant insurgency with Mystique, and even after Erik went down for shooting JFK. It was a very fucked up situation. Alex couldn’t understand it, and he doubted Hank did too. 

He liked Hank enough to at least make sure the guy knew what he was getting into.

Hank scrubbed through his hair and sighed. “I don’t want know if Charles is still—“ Off of Alex’ look, Hank shook his head and amended, “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But it’s not like that. Charles and I aren’t like Erik and Charles.”

“Well thank Christ for that.” 

“You know what I mean. It’s… It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not emotional, is my meaning. It’s just… hard to explain. It’s more like spending time.” 

Alex snorted. “That’s a hell of a way to bypass board games, man.” 

Hank frowned in that concerned way of his, but didn’t say anything. 

Alex took a minute to collect the thought and look at it from a few different angles to see if it would make any sense, but it wouldn’t. Hank and the Professor were having _casual_ sex, which seemed somehow crazier than sex at all. 

Unprompted and quietly, sort of like he was stepping out on a high wire, Hank added, “It’s a way of not feeling lonely.” 

He’d done that when he was younger, after his parents died, before he even knew why he was doing it. He’d run away from home sometimes, angry about everything he was—queer, violent, a nuclear bomb on legs. It was easy to get picked up by a stranger at a bar, go to a motel or park in the woods, and forget about being himself for a little while. There hadn’t been much opportunity for it, sex or forgetting, in the Army. A few times he went to a seedy dive bar in Saigon when he was on leave, far from base. 

Feeling lonely could drive you to fucking people you probably wouldn’t otherwise. It could drive you to drinking or smoking or gambling or violence or anything that could create a cloud over the solitude for a little while.

 _That_ , Alex understood. His whole life had been being alone in some way or another. 

Biting back the discomfort, he kicked the side of Hank’s foot and forced a smile. “Should’ve known you were the type to get all hot and bothered for a teacher. I bet you wrote your grade school teachers’ names in your notebooks and drew little hearts around them whenever you got a good grade.” 

Hank chuckled, but he blushed and looked away. 

“Fucking knew it.” 

 

 

Over the next few days Alex tried to stay on the routine he was making. But he wasn’t all that surprised when it was clear that wouldn’t pan out. 

Charles came to him during his breakfast. He knew instantly Charles was going to lay down something big. He couldn’t tell if it was just from the kind of steely expression on Charles’ face, the way he wouldn’t come close enough to Alex for a casual conversation, or the fact that Charles almost never came down for breakfast. But Charles was dressed already and looked more beat that usual. Something was just off. Alex had always had a keen sense for when something was about to imminently fuck him up. 

Charles cleared his throat and looked like he had to force himself to look Alex in the eye. They hadn’t talked much in the past few days. Considering how he’d walked in on him and Hank, Alex wasn’t surprised. But when he started thinking about Charles hadn’t talked to him much since he got back. Charles hadn’t come to Alex for much of anything. Even all the yard work was Alex’ own insistence. 

“I was wondering if you would accompany me to D.C. today.”

Alex frowned over his glass of milk. Charles hadn’t left the mansion since Alex had returned. And that was a pretty big car trip, especially for someone in a wheelchair, to spring last minute. But before Alex was drafted, he or Sean had been the one to take Charles anywhere. Hank had always got a little jumpy at the idea of being around normal people too long. 

“Sure,” he said warily. “What’s up?” 

Charles’ hand twitched on his armrest. “That’s, uh, a little difficult. There is someone in D.C. A mutant. Whom I need your help to identify.” 

For a second, Alex’ mind spun nauseously to Scott. Not long after Alex was shipped overseas, Scott was apparently moved to a different foster family. Alex had sent them a letter to see if he could continue calling Scott like he had with previous families, but they never sent him anything back. But Charles’ face looked too grave for that. 

“Why would you need my help for that?”

Charles took a deep breath. “What I’m about to say is going to sound mad. And frankly I don’t know how tender the issue may lay, if at all—not that I think you’re some kind of wilting flower. I don’t want to intrude or insinuate that I know anything, really, but I can imagine that it would be sensitive—“

“Professor,” Alex snapped. “You’re really freaking me out here. I mean, you’ve barely spoken to me since I got back and half the time you’re acting like I’m going to run off. So if you’ve got something to drop on me, drop it.” 

Charles bit his lip and his eyes began to shift into that concerned, sad shimmer that made Alex feel like shit. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’ve been using Cerebro and, well, I think that Armando may still be alive.”

It was like Alex’ lungs suddenly became small. Or the air had been pushed out of him. His chest felt heavy. His head felt empty. The words spun around and around inside but he couldn’t figure out what they meant. 

Darwin was not alive. Darwin had turned to ash and dust right in front of him. He could see it in his head as easily as it had just happened yesterday. Whenever he thought of it he could feel the crumbling shock all over again. 

“Darwin is dead,” Alex said. He didn’t think them; they just came out of him. He pushed his chair back from the table, ready to leave if he had to, but not knowing why.

“If I’m right, I’m not sure he ever really died in the first place. It’s tricky because—“

“Darwin died. I watched him die.” 

“Alex,” Charles said softly. 

“Don’t.” Alex felt like a kid. He wanted to run away. Armando was dead. Alex had eaten that knowledge, pushed his feelings about it down, and forced them away when he closed his eyes. 

He didn’t want them ripped out of him. Especially not with anyone watching. 

“Can I show you what I saw?

His throat felt thick. Part of him didn’t ever want to think about Armando ever again. Part of him would drop everything to go back to the few days he knew Darwin, to really appreciate them the way he couldn’t at the time. Alex wound up nodding, taking a deep breath and unclenching his jaw. He could feel the weightless weight of Charles’ telepathy trying to curl around him. It was strange and familiar, comforting and smothering, all at once. 

The flickering realization of what Charles had seen crept into his mind. A few different sessions of Cerebro over the course of several days. A reflection of what Charles felt when he opened his mind to Cerebro—a yawning chasm of constant noise, frantic with fear and worry and glee. Each and every voice calling out for attention. Alex could feel it but not, watched it like a movie. Then over the days one particular mind kept resonating, like a single repeated string being pulled in the cacophony. Charles found the texture familiar. The best Alex could translate the sensation would be recognizing a face in a crowd but not knowing where it was from. 

It wasn’t until the night before that Charles unconsciously thought of Armando. The possibility not coming to his attention before for obvious reasons. But once he did think of Armando, it became clear and melodic and immutable. The problem was, in Charles’ mind, instinct and intuition and telepathy were all tied together. Doubt from Charles’ consciousness was stamped all over it. And while the texture of that man’s mind was all Charles remembered of Armando, the man himself had been written over. 

Alex jerked away, shaking off the heavy, doping feel of Charles’ telepathy. 

“What does that mean? Written over?” 

“He doesn’t believe he’s the Armando Muñoz I believe him to be. Rather, he has no connection to his memories if he is so. To him, he’s a John Doe. He woke up in a hospital in D.C. in April last year without memory of his name or where he came from.”

“Last year? But he—Armando died over ten years ago.” 

Charles swallowed nervously. “Well, that’s where the truly mad part comes in. There is something locked in his brain that I got a sense of while I was in Cerebro. A shadow of a memory he does have that he was rebuilt on a cellular level.”

“What?” 

“The best I can figure is that Shaw didn’t really kill him. His gift was to adapt to any threat, yes? Shaw essentially irradiated and imploded his body. Naturally we assumed he was dead, but what he could survive even that?” 

Alex put his head in his hands, trying to physically push out the tension. “He was eviscerated.” 

“His body was, yes,” Charles said, “but matter cannot be destroyed. Armando’s ability wasn’t just to heal, but to change to any circumstance for survival. It is possible that adapting from being eviscerated would be the complete reconstitution of his cellular integrity. Which, I would imagine, would take quite a long time to recover from.” 

Alex wanted to completely reject the idea, but the possibility of Darwin being alive again had already grabbed a hold of him. Despite Charles wanting to question that the mind he’d felt was actually Armando, Alex had just been inside his head. What he’d felt was clear and made sense at its most basic level. 

He could feel it burning in the center of his body. He wanted Armando to be alive. 

Alex hid his shaky hands by tugging through his hair. “So, what do we do? I mean, how we do we tell him he’s a completely different person? Can we do that?” 

“I would think he deserves to know.”

“What is he doing? What did you feel about him remembering exactly, if not who he is?” 

Charles scratched at his beard. “Alex, you need to… I’m not entirely sure it is him.”

“Yes, you are. I felt it.” 

“I feel as though he is, but I could well be wrong. I’d like to know for certain.”

“But why would you even think of him if it weren’t him?”

“Nothing is precise in this, Alex,” Charles said, with a little gravel to his voice. “It’s a feeling. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Why would you want to go check if you weren’t—“

“Telepathy isn’t truth,” Charles spat, raising his voice for the first time in so long Alex was a little surprised. Charles took a deep breath, fists tightening over the armrests of his chair. “What I can see in people’s minds is only potential, not what they actually may do or what they are. I can’t predict people’s actions. I may feel as though I’ve found Darwin, but I can’t know. We’ll only know for certain when we find him.” 

Alex nodded, but didn’t speak. There was a raw look to him. Frankly, half of the things Charles said nowadays lurked heavily right beneath his eyes. Charles didn’t much look like he could stand for any of that to weigh heavier. It seemed more important to stay quiet than argue about what he’d felt in Charles’ head. 

“You’ll come with me then. Drive me to D.C.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

The drive to D.C. was long, almost six hours. Alex felt like he drank a few pots of coffee for every minute. 

The radio was on, fuzzed in and out, but it was no comfort. Flickering foliage and signposts and distant buildings whizzed past them as though their car was the stuck to the ground. There was no distraction for his thoughts. He was just there, raw with wondering. Alex’ pulse raced with anticipation. It was so stupid. _He_ was stupid for it. It seemed Charles wanted more to prove himself wrong than anything. And Alex should’ve known better. The idea that Darwin was somehow still alive was too good to be true. Yet there he was, thinking of what to say, what to do. 

Only he couldn’t get past Armando’s face in his head. His thoughts were all blocked, buzzing with not knowing, and want. He wanted Armando to be alive and close like he wanted air in his lungs. 

Stupid. 

Somewhere in the far too slow slogging drive—two hours in or two minutes, Alex couldn’t tell—being cooped up with Alex’ flustered mind must have been too much for Charles to withstand. He interrupted the silence by clearing his throat. 

“It isn’t stupid, Alex, to want such a thing. It’s only natural to miss the people you love.”

While Alex appreciated it, he wasn’t dumb enough to think that last part was only about him.

“I didn’t love him,” he said, despite knowing that wasn’t exactly the case. “I mean, I liked him. But we weren’t… we weren’t like you and Erik.” 

It’d probably be a safe bet that no other queers on the planet had a relationship quite as disastrously fucked up as Charles and Erik, but that was beside the point. 

Alex and Darwin had only had a few days with each other. Despite Alex’ most romantic experience prior to Armando being a weekend he spent as a teenager with some rich banker who promised to give him an apartment while Alex gave him head, but then kicked him out Sunday afternoon, something just sparked with Armando immediately. They’d talked a little about their mutations, flirted a little. Then Armando gave him this look, this proud, confident smile, and Alex was done for. 

They fucked on one of those small, awful bunks in the CIA barracks. Armando touched him nice with his hands and his lips. Strong but not greedy. “The Loco-Motion” came on the radio while they were doing it—Alex remembered that because they both started laughing and Armando kissed him. Even afterward, Armando was nice to him and interested in him. Talked to him like he cared. Touched him for no reason other than to touch.

And then, well after that Armando was dead.

Alex had liked him a lot. He liked to think that if Armando had lived they might have had a chance to stay together, even secretly. But that was just thinking. Any loving he’d done was after Armando died. And what did that mean? Loving a dead man who couldn’t ever say no or yes or love him back. 

Armando had been sweet to him for a few days because he was a good guy. This awful anticipation and craving for Armando to be back in his life wasn’t deserved at all. He just wanted something he’d never had in his life, but he had no right to it. 

“He just shouldn’t have died,” Alex added. 

“No. It was terrible. But whatever you mean by saying it wasn’t like mine and Erik’s relationship does not mean you have no right to feel sad from his passing. Or hope that he might be alive.” 

“Shit. It means I have no frigging clue what Darwin felt for me, Professor. We never got there. We had a good time and if he’d stayed alive who knows what would’ve happened? Maybe nothing. But me, just hanging on, still thinking about him a decade after, that’s pathetic because I can’t try for anything better the memory of one good time.” 

Alex looked over from the road, angry—at Charles, at everything, at himself—but there wasn’t any trace of Charles’ stubborn, patronizing side for him to be angry with. Instead Charles looked strangely young with his shocked glassy eyes. He looked like he’d been slapped. It even took Alex a moment to realize that what he’d said could apply to Charles too. 

Charles looked away out the passenger side window quickly enough, his face tightening into a frown. 

Flicking back and forth between the road and Charles for a while, Alex swallowed nervously. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—“

“I know,” he said, still not glancing from the window. “That your comments hit multiple targets is inconsequential. I know what you meant.” 

A long, uneasy silence, punctuated by the dull rumble of the car’s engine, passed before Charles spoke again. 

“Pathetic or not, what you feel is what you feel. Forgive me for having read too much into your thoughts, but I want to tell you this. Not only because I wish someone could have told me. Whether I’d have listened is something else, however. My point is, Alex, you cannot turn off loving someone. The embers dwindle, or they don’t. The feeling is not something you control. It’s not something you deserve or don’t deserve. It’s simply there, burning away inside you, without consideration to your life or your plans or your thoughts. I tried to put that away and failed miserably. Nothing covers up the lies you tell yourself. Nothing. You may succeed in forgetting for a while, but the truth always returns with its own breed of rage and fire. And I think you know that. Whatever happens after today, you’re going to have to deal with that without letting it consume you.” 

Alex’ grip on the wheel tightened as he tried to will the bone-deep feeling of heat pulsing around his torso and up his arms. He didn’t look anywhere other than the centerline of the road. He couldn’t. 

“Is this punishment?” Alex choked out. “For going overseas?” 

The last year and more before Alex’ number got pulled were incredibly tense. It was hard getting the school underway. Race riots and protests for women’s rights, for civil rights, even for the rights of queer people, were breaking out everywhere. It was a scary time to try to convince parents their children should come to a school that declared them as a previously unheard of breed of the human race. Every setback seemed to wound Charles personally, and make him angrier and more distant. 

Then as more troops were being sent to Vietnam, Charles offered to hide anyone who wanted to object to the draft, saying he could bribe the right people for papers, or change the right minds. It wasn’t a good idea, considering they were trying to run a school, and Alex told him so. 

They fought about it. The weeks before Alex was sent out were pretty silent between them. 

Still, Charles wrote letters for a while, even if they were a little terse. Sean was drafted not long after. Then the school was shut down when they couldn’t retain the minimum amount of student legally required for a school. After that Charles’ letters slowed down and were a little more cryptic. 

After news of Sean getting killed in action, Alex only received updates from Hank. 

Alex had figured all that was Charles way of being pissed that he’d been right, that Alex had left while the school was floundering, but now Alex was wondering if this wasn’t his punishment, being humiliated with the truth. 

But he could hear Charles’ sharp intake of breath from the passenger seat. It sounded wet. “Oh, Alex. No, of course not. I’m saying this because I don’t want you to make my mistakes. You need to know this before we reach D.C. and find out whatever we find out. I only want you to be happy.” 

Some time after the rolling drone of the tires had become the only sound in the car, covering even the sound of Alex’ heartbeat, Charles added, his voice more polished than before but distant, “For what it’s worth, you had more of Armando than I ever did of Erik. So maybe you’ll believe me in saying his affection for you was real, however brief. Maybe that’s a consolation. To know your time together had no hidden motive, no deeper meaning. Just honesty. Just affection.” 

 

 

The closer they got to D.C., and worked their way through the city, the tenser Alex felt. They traveled to a destination lodged in Charles’ head based less on how maps work and more on his relative sense of where Charles could feel Darwin. The potential Darwin, part of Alex’ brain tried to remind. Thankfully they stayed away from Capitol Hill. 

Although there were signs for construction, and passing trucks still removing debris, leading up that way. Fucking Erik. 

Alex’ sort of stupefied agitation lessened for a bit when he had to turn down what seemed like every street in a four block area. That was until something must have snapped into place. Charles’ hand twitched against the door handle, like he was going to leap out then and there, but it just hovered there while he barked out two more right turns. 

“There. That hardware store on the right.” 

Alex didn’t remember pulling to the curb or parking or walking into the store. He breathed. His blood boiled with that sickly warm churning before he used his power. It was blank concentration on staying alive, like he was in the jungle again. That was all. There were people around, but the store was small and Alex could only see the man behind the counter. 

There’d been some wondering in the car if he’d remember exactly the features of Armando’s face, if he could somehow be confused. 

It was impossible now to think that. He knew for certain the man standing behind the counter, grinning at a customer, was Armando. It was the exact face he’d seen a million times without seeing in the past decade. It was his smile. It was his posture—tall and straight-backed, arms loose and relaxed. It was absolutely him. 

“Oh my God,” Charles said, almost breathlessly. “This is…” 

Impossible. Extraordinary. A mistake. Charles never finished his sentence. 

The customer at the front desk walked away, between him and Charles. Armando looked straight at Alex. Armando’s brow furrowed for a second, eyes still heavy on him. And Alex damn near fainted. 

“Can I help you fellas?” 

The only two other men in the shop were eyeballing them. Of course. They were two out of town white guys. That’s why Armando was looking at them. Charles had said he didn’t remember anything. Armando would have said something by now if he had. 

“Yes. I think you might.” Charles stuttered a little. The other two guys simultaneously looked as through they just remembered something and walked right out of the shop. “We’re looking for someone.” 

That brought Armando, not quite the same Armando his hair longer than it was ten years ago and no recognition on his face, from out behind the cash register. He was wearing green bell-bottoms and a wide collared blue paisley shirt. He looked a little skinny, but he seemed normal. He looked at them cautiously, but smiled, like you would with strangers. Charles pushed himself forward up the main aisle of the shop. Alex followed after, brain trailing his feet by about a minute or two. The closer he got, the more his quiet, stinging hope that maybe it wasn’t Armando after all evaporated. 

“Well, lay it on me.” 

Charles wrapped his knuckles against the armrest of his chair. “This is a little difficult. Forgive me, but the name you’ve taken. It’s Travis, correct. Travis Wright.” 

Any echo of warmth slid off his face. “What do you mean? The name I’ve taken?”

“Travis Wright is the name you were given, after you woke up. A friend gave it to you when you had nothing else, not even a name. You were discharged from the hospital with no home or record of your life before the coma, with only a vague impression of who you were.”

Armando tensed against the counter he’d been leaning on, looked ready to jump behind it, but stayed there, holding his hands up out in front of him. “Whoa, whoa, who are you? How do you know this?” 

Charles looked at Alex, but thankfully understood that he couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. 

“My name is Charles Xavier. And I’ve come here today to offer you your history before your injury, if you wish to know it. And possibly to bring those memories back to life.” 

Armando stilled completely, sort of stuck between outrage and awe. “How?” he said quietly. “Did you know me before? What do you—How much do you know about me?” 

“I did know you before your untimely injury. For a time. As did my associate, Alex. Alex Summers.” 

He clearly said Alex’ name to evoke some reaction, to pull out some kind of memory. It didn’t work. Armando looked at him again, searching, but there was nothing there. 

Charles cleared his throat and continued, “This is a rather incommodious piece of information to hand someone, I know, but—“

“Incommodious—You’re telling me you know who I am. That you can fix me? After all these years. Why now? I woke up in D.C. General over four years ago with no clue who the hell I was. Why are you here now?” 

Charles’ face tightened doubtfully, like he didn’t know what to say. Alex felt an unlikely itch at the back of his throat and blurted without thinking, “You were dead. We thought you were dead.” 

“Yes,” Charles added. “Unfortunately. No one thought to look for you because no one thought there was a reason to look for you.” 

Armando’s hands flew to his scalp, either to hide some tremble Alex couldn’t see, or just to keep his head held together. Alex wanted to reach out and touch him. 

“It wasn’t until very recently I suspected you were alive.” 

“How?” Armando’s eyes darted to the door, and between Alex and Charles. He wasn’t freaking out yet, but he edging on that panicked look that preceded a few meltdowns Alex had seen in the jungle. 

“The same way I know what you’ve done since your time out of the hospital. Which is also the same reason I knew you in the first place. I’m a mutant, like you. I’m a telepath.”

“Mutant,” he muttered, only sparing a moment of doubtfulness for Charles’ explanation.

“No doubt you’ve noticed by now how you never get sick. Perhaps you’ve escaped danger in implausible and unbelievable ways.” 

Armando nodded, relaxing a little. “A few months back the shop got held up. One of the guys fired at me, but it was like the shot bounced off me. And not long after I was released from the hospital. I was sure I was going to get run over, but the next thing I know I was on the other side. Like I’d jumped right over it. Other things too.” 

“And as to how I might help you get your memories back. I cannot guarantee that, but sometimes amnesia is a psychological effect, caused from a specific traumatic event. It’s possible that through telepathy I can show you the memories hidden from yourself.” 

“Couldn’t you just see that now, if you can read minds?” 

Charles took a deep breath. “In this instant, individual thoughts, yes. But I’ve never had cause to resurrect a person’s entire life. That would take a great deal of, well, reading, for lack of a better word. And I wouldn’t intrude in that way without your express permission and understanding.” 

Armando leveled Alex and Charles with considering looks once more. “Does this have anything to do with what went down at the White House two weeks ago? The past few years I’ve had to figure out what I am and I’ve never so much as heard the word ‘mutant’ before the Trask rally. But I knew straight away that’s what I was.”

Charles bit back whatever he was going to say first, then shook his head. “No, that’s not why we’re here. We wanted to see you were alive and well. And what you might like to know about your past… I’m sorry. I wish there were a better way to do this, but I hadn’t been entirely sure it was you.”

“Now you are. I’m the man you knew before my coma?” 

“Positive.” 

Armando sighed, leaning back against his counter and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do I have family?” 

Either Charles didn’t know or he didn’t think he should say, because he pressed his lips together as if to keep from speaking. 

“A mother,” Alex interrupted. “And two sisters. In New York.” 

His mother’s name was Lynette, and his younger sisters’ names were Beatriz and Lola. Their father Emilio had died when Armando was eleven. He walked his sisters to school every day after that. His sisters knew Armando was gay, but he’d never talked about it with his mother. Alex probably didn’t know all that much about Armando, all told, but what he remembered every little thing that he did know. 

Alex wanted to tell him everyone at once, but also keep everything Armando ever told him to himself. 

Armando’s eyes went soft and wide. “They think I’m dead.” It wasn’t really a question.

Alex had to keep his teeth clenched tight together. He’d thought Armando was dead. It had made him hurt for years. It was making him hurt now. He wanted to say that. He felt like a selfish piece of shit for wanting to say it, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“This is surely a lot to take in. No doubt you have many more questions,” Charles said, switching back to his sympathetic, promising voice. “I’d like to help you find your family and recover your memories, but perhaps you need a little time? To adjust to this. To decide if uncovering your former life is something you want.” 

“You said,” Armando started, almost absently, “that you knew me because you’re a telepath. Do you just go around finding mutants?” 

Charles coughed slightly. “That’s not very far from the truth.” 

He paused to dig his wallet out of his pocket, and pull out a card. He stuck his arm out, but Charles was still a few feet away from Armando. Alex intervened, snatching it quickly, to hand it to Armando. Armando still looked dazed from everything he’d been told. His thumb touched Alex’ finger when he took the card. 

“We are hoping to re-open this school. A place for mutants, and mutant children, to find others like themselves and learn to use their abilities. The details of how we met are slightly involved, but essentially the same as that. I would think—Er, do you want to talk about it now? I can tell you as much as I know now if you wish.” 

Almost like he was entering a different conversation, he said, abruptly, “Do you really think you can make me who I was before?” 

Charles worried over his lip for a moment before shaking his head. “I think it very possible I can remind you of the life you lived. But even if you hadn’t lost all memory of who you were, you wouldn’t be the same person you were ten years ago. Certainly after living your life as Travis Wright for this long, you wouldn’t be the person we knew. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing, however. And for what it’s worth, the young man I knew was good and kind and a friend to many. You deserve to know that.” 

After a moment, Armando nodded, but said, “I think I need… some time. For now.”

“Yes, we’ll,” Charles motioned at Alex to back up. They were leaving already. Alex knew he couldn’t just drag Armando into any past he wasn’t ready for, but Alex wasn’t ready to leave him again. 

Before starting to turn his chair, Charles added, “Please, do call. Any time you’re ready, day or night. You are most welcome with us.” 

Possibly because it sounded like Charles was about to say his name, Armando asked, “What’s my real name?” 

“Armando,” Alex said, too quickly. “Armando Muñoz.” 

Driving home, trying to give focus to the world, walking through the rest of the day was difficult with this hanging over Alex like a pall. It was hard work to see the road in front of him, to listen to the words Charles said. He felt sticky and bloodless, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. 

If he’d been expecting anything to come from finding Armando alive, returning home empty handed wasn’t it. 

At some point during a late dinner at the mansion, the loud drumming in his throat got to be too much. He wasn’t just hot—he was overheating. His hands and arms were throbbing, swollen. Without much direction or thought for what would happen next, he ran outside. Just seeking fresh air, something, anything to cool him down and open his lungs. 

He ran outside and kept running. His hands felt numb and he couldn’t breathe. He kept running because he couldn’t feel it. 

After what could have been hours he felt a weight of some kind, directing him. He could feel his heart start to slow down. His hands started to pinch with feeling again. 

Something told him to go to the duck pond. In the acreage behind the mansion there was a small pond that used to host ducks. There was a strange flashing image of Charles and Raven as children running through it. Alex didn’t realize why that was out of place until he was standing on the grass, a little wet and slimy, while steam rose in clouds from the pond, and reeds and grass lay wilted around the edges. 

_Alex_ Charles voice whispered against his mind. _Are you alright?_

Alex shook his head, nodded. He didn’t fucking know anymore. 

There was an aborted feeling of necessity buffeting against him for second, but it was pulled away. _Do you need anything?_

 _Going for a walk_ , he thought back at Charles, and walked away, just to be moving. 

He walked to the village and back for no reason, his clothes slowly air-drying and his body regaining shape and solidity, as the sun went down. He walked around the grounds even more, long after full feeling came back in his feet and they started to ache a little, feeling like a kid trying to avoid getting grounded or something. 

When he got back to the mansion, Charles was waiting for him out by the kitchen entrance, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the emerging night sky. Even though the kitchen entrance was actually below the house with a small set of stairs, meaning Charles would have had to come there from the side of the house and wheeled around the walkway, it wasn’t surprising he was waiting there for Alex. 

Alex sat down on the pavement next to him, and looked at the smoldering cigarette in Charles’ fingers enviously. He hadn’t smoked as much as most of the guys he knew overseas, but it was basically impossible not to given half the Service economy ran on tobacco. His lighter, with the word “mutant” carved on it, the only place a guy could be identified by how shitty and out of place he felt, was upstairs in his dresser. He’d been pretty good about not smoking too much since he got back, but right then he was salivating for it.

“Can I bum a smoke?” 

Charles pulled a golden paper pack of Benson & Hedge’s out from between the side of his chair and his leg. He handed one to Alex and even lit it for him. The first drag was nice, not as strong as the French-writing packs he’d gotten in Vietnam, or the Kools some of the guys would trade. 

“Thanks.” 

Charles nodded and didn’t speak. The silence rolled on heavily. Every second Alex kept thinking Charles was going to say something or offer some advice, but it never came. 

Finally Alex said, “So you weren’t going to explain who he was to him at all?”

Charles didn’t look surprised by the question. “I’m not going to force it on him. He’s been living as he has for several years now. He has to want to know. Being confronted with a whole life that’s been hidden from him, learning exactly how he was taken away from us could be traumatic. He’ll have to live with essentially two different identities. That’s quite a lot for anyone to deal with, no matter how much we all want Darwin back.” 

Alex scoffed, breathing the smoke out of his nose. “Man, you’ve got a speech for everything. Wish you would’ve been that talkative when I was in Vietnam, waiting for letters from you.” 

That did surprise him. His hair was pulled back, so Alex could even see his ears go a little red. 

Alex switched topic before he could speak. “That was you right? Calming me down, pulling me back in. Giving me the idea to go in the pond.”

“You were having a panic attack… You were so closed off since the trip back from D.C. I should have been paying closer attention to you.” 

“What would you have been able to do other than what you did?” Alex shook his head. “What could you possibly have done differently?” 

Charles frowned his _I don’t have an answer to that_ frown. 

“It is what it is.” Alex shrugged. He’d had one after seeing his first skirmish. And he wasn’t keen on having another one ever again, but there wasn’t really anything to stop it from happening as far as he knew. “You can’t keep everyone from feeling anything bad.”

“No, that’s not—“ Charles made a sort of disgusted sound and rubbed his hand on his thigh. “I meant before today. I thought I might make it worse for you, considering everything. I didn’t mean for you to feel alone, Alex.” 

Even in the dimming light, Charles’ eyes were bright and tearful. Alex had been thinking it since he’d come home, turning over different pieces of information in his head to fit everything together. Charles was obviously changed, but Alex didn’t know he was this fragile. The Charles he was familiar with had been anything but delicate. 

“Prof, if I’m going to blast off, you need to shut me down. That’s about all that you can do, which is, frankly, more than pretty much anyone else can do. But if you don’t want me to feel alone… If you want to be there, be there.”

Charles looked away. “I’ve been trying not to interfere. No good comes from my interfering.” 

Of course it was Raven and Erik. Everything came back to them after a while. “That’s not true.” 

“I don’t know if this has escape your notice, but I don’t know what I’m doing, Alex. I’m sorry. I lied to all of you. From the beginning. I led you all to believe I could help you, that I could fix things for all of you. The truth is I don’t know how to do this. I’m no teacher. I don’t know where the line is drawn for when it is acceptable to act on what I know from my telepathy and I never have. I’ve never known when I should interfere and when I shouldn’t. I’ve tried giving myself rules to follow, but I have failed my own rules. People’s lives are worse off now because of it. The path our people might have been set on because of the things I’ve done, or failed to do…”

Charles trailed off, still looking into the horizon. Hank and Charles had caught me up on the time-traveler and the supposed, disastrous future they were to avoid. Alex didn’t know about that, how you could stop a tragedy before it started for certain. He hoped for everyone’s sake that they did. But if Charles was already inflicted with self-doubt, that whole experience seemed to muddy the waters even more. 

Charles took a deep, wavering breath and added, “I’m not certain that keeping everything from Armando for the moment is better. Leaving him time to decide is… is what I’d want for myself. I’m not sure it’s right, but I’ve been informed that I should trust my capacity to do the right thing. Not sure that’s right either.” 

Alex rolled his cigarette between his fingers to keep them steady, watching the smoke curl and float upwards. His nerves were still agitated. There was no heat in chest anymore, just a rattling, empty feeling. And he couldn’t help but think of when Charles had first brought them all to the mansion, to learn how to use their abilities. Charles taught him how to direct his power, consistently and with focus. He was the first person, after years of trouble with the law and juvenile detention, who really believed in Alex to better than a dangerous fuck up. Now it nagged at Alex that Charles didn’t believe he could teach what he’d already taught Alex. 

“Do you know why I went overseas, even though you offered to get me some doctored papers?” 

That focused the melancholy look on Charles’ face into something more awake. “No, I didn’t—No.” 

“I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to fight anyone. But when you started the school, you said that in order for mutants to advance we need to be a part of society. We need to be recognized. We need to participate. From my point of view, that meant going to war even when I didn’t want because I’m part of this country. I want to be a part of the world, not hiding underneath it. I didn’t even think that was possible until you said it was. And I don’t know if I made the right choice. It felt a lot like it was the last thing I should be doing when I was over there. And I don’t know if everything’s all going to work out okay. With Armando, with the school, with us and the government. With me. But I still believe it can.”

Alex paused to catch Charles’ eye and hold it before going on. “You’ve helped me a lot, Charles. And I believe you can help a lot of other people. But you have to be there. You can’t drop out of life like you did. All I know is that in my experience your interfering has done a lot more good than not interfering.”

A good long silence creaked by before Charles said, “Thank you, Alex. And I’m sorry. For dropping out of life, as you say, while you were overseas. I’m finding I have a great many apologies to make.” 

Alex shrugged. “It’s better than not making them.” 

 

 

Over the next few days, Alex’ new civilian routine snapped back as much as it was likely going to. 

He got up in the morning earlier than he wanted, ate his breakfast, exercised a little, and worked on some outside maintenance, or helped Hank with anything he needed help with. A few times now Charles even asked him to talk to someone from the Board of Education. 

On Wednesday, Armando called to meet with Charles, to find out what he could about himself, and find his mother and sisters. Alex tried not to think about it, or wonder if Armando might want to stick around. 

The next day Charles hired a car and left for a day of meetings in the City. Earlier at breakfast he’d broken the news abruptly, and it made Alex wonder if Charles had some kind of vendetta against breakfast, that he kept interrupting Alex’ with big news. 

“I’m going to talk to people today about the possibility of doing a televised interview, educating people on mutation.” 

Alex and Hank looked at each other. Charles had been giving out statements as an expert on genetics to various newspapers for the past few weeks. Different news programs had been talking about mutation and mutants since the Paris Peace Accords and the Sentinel project, but most of it was speculation on the mutants they’d already seen—Hank, Raven, and Erik. Television was a big step up and that would make Charles the only mutant the outside world would be able to find, again and again.

“Televised?” Hank said, like he didn’t frigging hear and know how big this could be. 

“Well, actually, quite a lot of people have asked me. At first I dismissed the idea out of hand, but people are still talking about what happened in D.C., naturally, and mutation. Without a clear advocate on behalf of mutants, certain facts are becoming distorted. I thought someone with the scientific pedigree should be available to resolve those questions and simultaneously advocate for mutants.” Charles took a sip of his coffee and added half sheepishly, half smirking, “Then I realized that someone probably has to be me. What do you think?”

“Well, er, having a public voice would be great,” Hank said. “But are you going to… say you’re a mutant?” 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I shouldn’t? As you pointed out, we’re known now. Mutant figures need to be seen. Also, we’re trying to start the school again. Mutants need to know about each other, and where they might go for help.” 

Hank sighed. “Yeah, I guess I know that. It’s just… It’s dangerous too. I know you’re right, but it’s still a little shocking to consider.” 

“Well,” Charles said, eying Alex. “We should strive to be a part of this world. Shouldn’t we, Alex?

Alex grinned. “Right on, Professor. Who are you meeting with?” 

“Someone from WNET, but it would be a PBS broadcast. We’re more likely to find our most sympathetic audience with PBS anyway.” 

After Charles left, Hank and Alex went to their separate school preparations. Alex had taken up laying new brickwork around the fountain, which meant he was outside a car pulled into the circle drive. They’d been keeping the gates open for staff and contractors fixing up the mansion, but this wasn’t any of them. 

Two men stepped out that Alex had never seen before. 

One was big, burly, and rough around the edges. He had out of place, wire brush brown hair and facial hair, but no mustache. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and smoking a cigar. He stepped out of the car, glancing all around like he was checking the place out. Really obviously hired muscle. 

The other man was younger, clean cut and nondescript, with pale skin and dark hair, carrying a suitcase. He didn’t look particularly tough like his companion, but he walked around the car and toward the house quickly, like he knew exactly where he was going. 

That was until stopped short, looking straight at Alex. 

They were only a few yards away, so Alex called out, “Can I help you?” 

“Alex!” The younger one said, surprised but happily, coming forward, almost with a skip in his step, setting the suitcase down beside him. 

The face still didn’t ring any bells even though he looked almost military. “Um, do I know you?” 

He smirked. “Maybe if I slip into something a little more comfortable.” 

The man with the cigar snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother saying anything or even looking at Alex. The younger man in front, however, flickered into a blue blur, and then settled into a still smirking Mystique. Thankfully, she looked a lot less angry and determined than when he’d seen her last in Saigon. 

“You came back to the mansion,” she said. “Are you here to stay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my home.” He pointed to the suitcase, “Are you coming back?”

Her smile fell a little at that, but she steamrolled past it. “No. I came to talk to Charles. Is he in his study?” 

“He’s in the city today.” 

She frowned, the cloud of black spots that made up her pupil, Alex guessed at least, tightened closer. “What? What’s he doing?” 

Considering what he knew of what happened between her and Erik, a story that was confusing at best, Alex wasn’t entirely sure what the household situation was in regard to Mystique. He had no doubt Charles would let her come back permanently, but shooting Erik in the neck or not, the last Alex knew she was still a mutant vigilante. She had made a stand against Charles' plea for peace, and all of them. He had no idea how she would react to hearing Charles was going to do TV interviews about mutations. 

“He’s got some meetings.” 

She was unimpressed by that. “What kind of meetings?” 

“Ones in the city.” 

“Alex.”

“Raven,” he mocked. 

“What is my brother doing?” 

“Listen, I’ve been on the other side of the world for the past two years. And while I really appreciate you getting us on that plane, the last time I was here you were nowhere to be found for years. So your brother’s business is your brother’s business, not yours. He’ll be back later tonight. You can wait here for him, or scram.” 

Raven scowled. Alex felt a little bad. He _did_ really appreciate that Raven probably saved his life. But while Charles had been quick to write off Raven’s absence as something Erik did, Alex had been there at the mansion while she didn’t visit or call once after Erik was incarcerated. Part of him hated her a little, and Erik for that matter, if he was being totally honest, the minute they’d found out Charles was paralyzed. But he’d never been a very fair person. 

“Want me to punch him, boss?” The muscle behind her said. 

She let out an exasperated sigh. “If I wanted him punched, I’d do it myself. It’s fine. I suppose we can—“

“Jesus goddamn Christ,” Raven’s muscle shouted. “He’s blue too!” 

Hank, all blue, furry six feet of him, had come out of the house. He pushed up his glasses and looked at Alex in concern. 

“Raven. Logan? That’s—He’s alive?” 

The man’s eyes went big and he clenched his fists like he was ready to fight. “How the crap does he know my name?” 

Raven sighed. “I told you. You worked with him. And my brother. Remember?” 

“You didn’t tell me he was blue. Or furry. That’s not a thing you just surprise a guy with. What the hell color is your brother?” 

“He’s not—“ Raven sighed into her hand. “Just shut up, meathead.” 

Hank said, like he was just wondering aloud, “How are you alive?” 

The man, Logan apparently, shrugged, now over his shock, and stuck his cigar back in his mouth. “Beats me.”

“Is the future… alright?” Hank asked, looking sheepish. 

“What?” Alex said.

“What?” Logan said, at the same time. 

“He doesn’t know any of that,” Raven answered. If it was an answer. Alex couldn’t really tell. 

“Wait a minute,” Alex snapped. “What the hell is going on? Is this the time traveling guy? This guy?” 

Logan said, “no,” while both Raven and Hank said, “yes.”

“What the hell?” Alex said, though less as a question and more as a simple comment on the state of things. 

“Yeah, it’d be a lot easier if we had a telepath, wouldn’t it?” Raven sighed, picked up her suitcase, and went for the door. “Come on. We’re waiting anyway.” 

Logan followed her wordlessly, eying Hank again as he went past, shaking his head. Hank shrugged and went after both of them, waving Alex on. 

Alex sighed. So much for his routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Feel free to tell me your thoughts. 
> 
> Next up is Charles POV. 
> 
> If that sort of this is your bag, here's [my tumblr](http://jabletown.tumblr.com/).


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